SEE MONSTER

The wind on the high sea was frigid throughout the night. The boat they had come to find themselves on was small, wooden, pointed at one end and squared off on the other—classic row boat style. It was agreeable in nature. The paint had long peeled. Remnants of the white marine paint clung to the wooden panels in an attempt to keep the wood from swelling. All they had for shelter was the canvas top, spotted green and black with minuscule mildew, found under the center bench with an old cracked bucket and a vintage hand-held bit brace, brown with rust. The wooden handles were still intact, cracked. Both items seemed functional. They wrapped themselves in the canvas cover, clutching at warmth that never set in, fleeting with each crest of a new swell. The wind took everything. The warmth of the sun had long faded and wouldn't return until morning. They held each other till dawn. The sun made it up, and with it came a calm, serene ocean, almost still except for the movements exaggerated by the unsure footing from within that old boat.

Tom Venger was a tall, sickly looking man with gaunt features accentuating his cheek bone structure. He had a potbelly on him that looked as if he had consumed the entire Christmas goose, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and ham all in one go—a complete juxtaposition to the rest of his thin frame. His eyes, dark in nature, beady and ever scanning, not even in sleep. He seemed to have one eye perpetually roving under the lid to find Pete. Regardless of the codependency these two had on each other, Pete Hopel was an average man with average build, healthy in nature and perhaps a little too trusting. He had a round face and piercing blue eyes that were passed to each of his children, a stark contrast to Tom's rat-like appearance.

The hours dragged on in that silence, broken only by the creak of old wood and the occasional lap of water against the hull. Tom had taken up the bit brace, examining it with beady eyes, turning it over in his thin fingers. The wooden handles were smooth from decades of use, worn down by calloused hands long since gone. He fiddled with the mechanism, checking if the jaws still held tight, testing the crank, would it still bite into something? Pete watched him from across the boat, his bright blue eyes following every movement, but saying nothing. There was nothing to say—just the two of them and the endless expanse of water in all directions. No land, no birds, no ships. Just blue and more blue, stretching to where the sky met the sea in a line so straight it looked drawn with a ruler. The lonliness weighed on them like a hydraulic press, squeezing down on their minds, the kind of solitude that made a man question if the world beyond this raft even existed any more. Tom kept turning the drill over and over again, as if it held some answer, some purpose they hadn't discovered. The sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and deep crimson, the water reflecting it all back like a mirror, they were suspended between two burning skies. It was beautiful in a way that made Pete's chest ache, beauty like that felt cruel when you were stranded, thirsty and not sure if tomorrow would come. The colors deepened to purple, then indigo, and finally that absolute black of night on open water, where even the stars seemed too far away to matter. They pulled the mildewed canvas over themselves again, Tom's bony elbow digging into Pete's ribs as they tried to find some arrangement that would keep the breeze off. This night was calmer, though the gentle rock of the boat was almost worse than the swells it was so rhythmic, so hypnotic, it made time feel like it had stopped entirely. They dozed in fits, neither really sleeping, just existing in a space between waking and dreams where cold and discomfort blurred. When dawn broke, it came with a sky the color of blood, deep red spreading from the horizon like a wound opening up. Pete saw it first and felt the adrenaline surge, he knew the old saying: "red in the morn, sailors be warned". Tom saw it too, and for the first time, his eyes stopped watching Pete, and just stared at the crimson dawn. Neither of them spoke, but they both knew what it meant. Somewhere out there a storm was coming, and they had nothing but that old boat to face it with.

Tom still had that old drill in his hands, turning it over, examining it like it might suddenly reveal some secret, some escape from this floating prison. He had started scraping the bit against the side of the boat—not drilling into it, just dragging the rusted point across the wood in long slow strokes that made a low sound of fibers being broken. Pete watched him do it over and over again, the scraping sporadic and maddening in its repetition, yet he said nothing, just clutched that cracked bucket in his lap, his knuckles white around the rim. The sea had started to change. they could feel it in the way the boat moved, no longer that gentle rocking but agitated. The swells were growing taller, coming faster. Pete, not letting go of his life line, held the bucket in solemn purpose. By afternoon, the sky had turned the color of a bruise, dark purple and green churning overhead, and then it hit them. The wind howling, it was something alive. The rain came down in sheets so thick they couldn't see past the bow of the boat. Twenty-foot swells rose up around them, walls of grey water that lifted them high and dropped them into troughs so deep the sky disappeared. Both men scrambled, moving without thinking. Tom dropped to his knees, still gripping that drill in one hand while trying to hold onto the side of the boat with the other. Pete was already bailing, scooping water out with that old bucket, his arms burning with the effort. The boat pitched and rolled, water pouring over the sides faster than Pete could throw it out, but he kept going. Bucket after bucket, his shoulders screaming, his hands slipping on the bucket's wet edge. Tom tried to steady them, but he wouldn't let go of the drill, clutching it like it was the only solid thing in a world gone mad. The canvas tarp whipped in the storm, a hazard for both faces, and still the rain came. The swells lifted and dropped them, paltry in every aspect. Pete bailed through it all, even when his arms were numb and dead, he clung to the idea of life, even when he thought the next wave would be the one that swamped them completely. He kept scooping, kept throwing water back to the sea. Tom huddled low in the boat, the drill pressed against his chest, his eyes finally leaving Pete to stare at nothing, at everything, death hovered, shrouding their minds. Pete's arms moving on will alone, long after strength had left them. The bucket was their salvation. His companion dead weight. When dawn eventually crested, grey, exhausted, they were still afloat, still breathing, clutching their talismans, though only one had saved them.

They had slept at opposite ends of the boat post-storm. Pete curled up near the bow, his body aching from the hours of bailing. Tom hunched at the stern, still holding the drill even in sleep. Pete woke to a grinding sound, rhythmic, purposeful, the kind of sound that didn't belong to wind or water. The unnatural creak of old wood splitting broke his slumber. He opened his eyes, still heavy with exhaustion, and behold, Tom was crouched over the hull of the boat, the drill in both hands, turning the crank with deliberate motions. The bit was biting into the wood, shavings curling up pale against the weathered planks, there were holes already—several of them—dark circles punched through to the sea below. Water was seeping in through , slow at first, just thin streams that caught the morning light like threads of glass, pooling in the low spots of the hull, spreading dark across the wood. Pete sat up so fast the boat rocked, his heart hammering in his chest. "What are you doing?" he shouted, his voice hoarse and cracking. "Tom, what are you doing?" But Tom didn't stop, didn't even look up. He just kept turning that crank, grinding the bit deeper into another spot, the sound of it filling the air between them. The water kept coming in through those holes, no longer threads now but steady flows, cold seawater finding its way into their boat, into the only thing ensuring life. Pete stared at the holes, at Tom, at the drill that had finally found its purpose, and felt something cold settle in his gut, colder than the water pooling around his feet.

Pete grabbed for the bucket, his hands shaking between rage and panic, and started bailing again, scooping up the cold seawater and hurling it over the side. Bucket after bucket, his arms still sore from the storm as he continued the motions. Tom stopped drilling, just stopped mid-turn and sat back on his heels, watching Pete through beady eyes, the drill resting across his knees like he had finished some important task. Pete bailed and bailed, but the water kept coming in through the holes, steady, relentless, and he knew the bucket alone wouldn't be enough. He looked around, desperate, the canvas cover! crumpled and damp in the bottom of the boat, and without thinking he dropped the bucket and grabbed it, started tearing at it with his hands, ripping strips from the mildewed fabric, the sound of it tearing loud in the morning quiet. "No," Tom said, his voice flat. "No, you can't." Pete ignored him, kept tearing, kept ripping. Strip after strip, the canvas coming apart in his hands. "That's our cover," Tom said, louder now. "We need that." Pete didn't answer, just took the first strip and shoved it into one of the holes, pressing it down with his palm, the fabric soaking through immediately, dark with seawater, holding, blocking most of the flow. "You can't do that," Tom said, standing now, the drill still in his hand. "You can't." But Pete kept going. He tore another strip, stuffed it into the next hole, his fingers working fast, pressing the canvas down into the wood, forcing it into the gaps. Tom stepped toward him, reached out like he might grab Pete's arm, might stop him, but Pete shrugged him off, kept working. Hole after hole, strip after strip, the canvas cover disappearing piece by piece, sacrificed to plug the destruction Tom Venger had made. Eventually, Pete plugged them all, every hole stuffed with mildewed green and black fabric, the water still seeping through but slower now, manageable. He sat back, breathing hard, his hands raw and bleeding from tearing the canvas, his arms trembling from the effort. Tom stood over him, silent now, just watching, the drill hanging loose in his grip. The boat was still afloat. The water inside was shallow enough that Pete could bail it out. And they were alive, despite everything.

The next night passed in uneasy silence, Pete did not sleep, one eye always half open, watching Tom's shadow in the darkness. When he finally did fall into sleep, it was the grinding that woke him, that same purposeful sound of metal biting into wood. Pete's eyes snapped open and there was Tom, crouched over the bottom of the boat, drilling new holes. The canvas plugs Pete had stuffed in the old ones were still holding, but now Tom was making more. Pete moved to grab the bucket, but Tom was faster, his thin arms whipping around, snatching it up and hurling it over the side. Pete watched it arc through the air and hit the water with a splash, floating away, bobbing on the gentle swells. He sat there, dumfounded, his mouth open, shock freezing him in place, his only tool, only savior, drifted further and further from the raft. Pete lunged for the canvas, pulling it close to his chest, but Tom moved on him fast, dropping the drill and ripping the fabric from Pete's hands with surprising strength. Pete tried to hold on, but Tom yanked, ripping it from Pete's feeble clutches. Pete found himself staring at Tom, who picked up the drill and pointed it at him, the rusted bit aimed at Pete's chest. "I'll stab you," Tom said, his voice flat and certain. "I'll kill you." Pete froze, his hands still outstretched, his breath caught in his throat. Tom backed away, still pointing that drill at him, then sat back down and went back to work, grinding new holes into the bottom of their boat, methodical and calm, like he was building something instead of destroying it. Pete sat there watching the bucket float away, getting smaller and smaller until it was just a dark speck on the water and then nothing. He looked at Tom drilling away, looked at the water already starting to seep in through the new holes, looked at his empty hands, and knew his options were nill. Eventually, Pete stood, his legs unsteady in the bottom of the boat, and moved to the wooden seat that ran across the stern. He started pulling at it, testing it, trying to find where it was attached. Tom glanced up but kept drilling. Pete grabbed the edge of the bench and started slamming his weight against it, over and over, trying to break it loose, trying to hack at it with his bare hands. The wood was old and stubborn, rusty nails melded seeping into old wood but he kept at it because he needed something, anything.

The wood finally gave way with a crack that echoed across the empty ocean, and the bench came loose in Pete's hands. Four sides and a bottom, a shallow box that would displace water. Tom looked up from his drilling and saw Pete with the piece of boat in his hands, and maybe he thought Pete was helping, maybe he thought Pete was finally joining him in tearing it all apart, because he just nodded and went back to grinding holes into the hull. Pete stood there with the loose bench section, feeling the weight of it, and something inside him snapped. All the fear, all the anger, all the exhaustion and terror of watching Tom systematically trying to kill both of them rose up in him like a wave. He lunged across the boat, his feet splashing through the water that was ankle-deep, moving faster than he had ever moved. He crashed into Tom, knocking him sideways, and the drill flew from Tom's hands, spinning through the air. Both men scrambled for it, their hands grasping, slipping on wet wood. Pete's fingers closed around the handle, Tom grabbed his wrist and they fought, rolling in the pooling water, the boat rocking violently beneath them. The drill slipped from his grip—and they both watched it tumble over the side and disappear, descending into the green water, sinking down, down until it was gone, swallowed by the ocean that was slowly swallowing them. They stayed there, frozen, watching the spot where it had vanished, both breathing hard, both soaked. Pete then pulled back and retreated to his end of the boat, sitting down in front of his loosened bench, his chest heaving, his hands shaking. Tom gathered up the canvas, what was left of it, clutching the canvas to his chest, and backed into his corner of the slowly sinking boat. The water kept coming in, the holes a gateway to death, steady and patient, neither man had anything left to offer their lives the last oblation.

Pete sat there watching the water rise, feeling it climb up his shins to his knees, cold and relentless, death's tendrils claiming the inevitable, the boat settling lower and lower in the unforgiving sea. Tom clutched the canvas in the stern, his beady eyes wide now, finally understanding, it was too late. Pete waited, holding that bench piece close to his chest, feeling the boat sinking beneath him inch by inch, the water up to his waist now and still rising. He waited until the very last moment, until the water was at his chest, until he could feel the boat about to go under completely. Then he flipped the bench over, dumping the water that had collected in it, and pulled it tight against his body, a life preserver. He pushed off hard, kicking away from the sinking raft, his legs propelling him back as the stern where Tom sat slipped under the surface. Tom tried to stand, tried to move, but the canvas he had wrapped himself with, tangled his thin legs and his arms, the wet fabric clinging to him like it had been waiting for this moment. He sunk into the water still clutching it, still trying to hold on, it dragged him down, unforgiving, the weight of it water-logged and heavy, pulling at his limbs. Pete watched from afar, floating on his piece of life, as Tom thrashed in the water, his rat-like face breaking the surface, gasping, his mouth open wide, sucking air and water simultaneously. The canvas wrapped tighter around him with every ounce of struggle, binding his arms, his legs like a hungry snake. He went under, came up again, his eyes flashing, finding Pete one last time, that perpetual gaze finally showing something other than calculation, showing pure animal terror. a swell rolled him over, a wall of green, white-frothy-tipped water, when it passed, Tom was still there, weaker now, face down, his movements slower, more desperate, inconsistent. Another swell tried to swallow him, he went under, didn't come back up as fast, when he did his face was pale, his mouth still open but no sound coming out. The canvas pulled him down again, he didn't surface for a long while, and when he did his hand broke the surface, fingers splayed, reaching for something that wasn't there. The back of his head crested the frothy water, hair flowing with the current. Swells rolled on, indifferent, swallowing him completely. The water was smooth and dark where Tom had descended. Pete floated on his bench piece, watching the spot where Tom disappeared, the water smooth and dark, small soda-like bubbles ascended. There was nothing left but him and the ocean, the sun climbing higher in the endless desert sky—a gull, M-shaped against the blue, wheeling and crying, its lonely call carrying across the water.